by Alan Swyer

(image c/o elephante)

On his first evening in Southern California, Jeff Rose was driven by his cousin Steve to a noisy, tightly-packed Italian restaurant walking distance from the ocean in Santa Monica. In a  room filled with recognizable faces from music, movies, and TV, Steve gave a crash course on the culture Jeff was encountering. 

“First and foremost,” stated Steve Roth once they were seated, “everything in LA is a prop. The car you drive. The clothes you wear. Even where your kids, once you have ’em, go to pre-school. Show up in a Toyota – except maybe a Prius – or a Buick or Honda, and red flags go up. Arrive in a Porsche, Tesla, or Jag? You’re all right. You’re one of us.” Jeff grimaced. “We’re pediatricians, not movie producers.” 

Steve sighed. “To be just a pediatrician, I could’ve stayed in Providence, or set up shop in New York or Boston.”  

Steve’s goal, he explained, was to become not just a pediatrician, but the pediatrician on talk shows dealing with kids, plus the first one called when TV news needed an expert on children’s health. 

To get there, and then someday have a show of his own, Steve was cultivating what he called “a celebrity practice.” That meant focusing on the sons and daughters of key actors,  musicians, directors, producers, and heads of networks and studios, plus major agents,  managers, and show biz attorneys, with special treatment including house calls. “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” commented Jeff. 

“Fame and fortune,” responded Steve proudly before getting up to embrace a woman Jeff thought might be Nicole Kidman.

By the time he was alone in Steve’s guest room, Jeff’s head was spinning. Growing up, he’d always revered his older cousin, who had long served as a role model. It was due to Steve that Jeff became passionate about the Red Sox and Celtics. And, though not gifted athletically, he had worked hard enough to overlap with his older cousin for a year on their high school baseball team. Then, after following Steve’s path through Brown and B.U. Med School, Jeff chose to specialize in pediatrics once Steve suggested that they eventually form a practice together. 

Yet suddenly he couldn’t help but wonder what in the world he’d gotten himself into. 

Despite the lingering sense that he’d been conned, duped, or sold a bill of goods – the exact term depended on his feelings at a given moment – Jeff found himself not merely adjusting to Southern California life, but actually enjoying it. Having lucked into in an apartment a block and-a-half from the beach in a still somewhat funky part of Venice, he loved the climate, which allowed him to run or bike at dawn on Ocean Front walk without encountering sleet, hail, or horrendous humidity. He got a kick out of being in a place that had more yoga teachers than Mumbai, as well as ubiquitous Pilates studios, gyms big and small, and even a place called  Stretchlab. And he marveled at the restaurants catering to diets unheard of on his home turf. Though he had encountered vegetarian before, he hadn’t been aware of Ethiopian vegetarian, or multiple examples of paleo, keto, gluten-free, Atkins, plus something called Zone. 

As for the infamous LA traffic, it only became a bother when, in a used Camry that made his cousin cringe, he had to make an emergency run to Children’s Hospital on the eastern edge of Hollywood. 

In the low-rise Santa Monica office he shared with his cousin, the division of labor was clear. Steve treated the offspring of the “high-ranking industry folk,” while Jeff tended to the sons and daughters of what were termed “the civilians.” 

That, Jeff quickly came to realize, meant that he was spared the fawning, pandering, and indulging that Steve felt provided the pathway to the success. 

Instead of living in a rarefied world of celebrity culture, for the most part the kids Jeff  treated were unspoiled and normal – or as unspoiled and normal as they could be in light of a  joke heard from one of the office’s nursing staff.  

Q: What the definition of a gifted child? 

A: A kid north of Olympic and west of the 405. 

It was only when Steve was either making a house call in Malibu, or driving to Burbank or Culver City for a TV spot, that Jeff, holding the fort, had to deal with emergencies involving the kind of parents found on TMZ, E News, or the Shade Room. Those encounters – with the son of an action star, the daughter of a woman who hosted a talk show, and the twins of a famous comic – made Jeff grateful that he’d grown up in a world that, for all its problems, allowed kids to be kids. 

So in addition to hospital runs to examine newborns, Jeff found himself treating both the commonplace – runny noses, colic, strep throat, and knees torn up in skateboard accidents –  plus occasionally the uncommon – Fabry’s Disease, where the body doesn’t produce the  enzymes needed to break down lipids, or Maple Syrup Urine Disease (MSUD), in which toxins  build up in blood and urine, smelling like maple syrup while causing serious health problems. 

After six weeks in which, as Steve put it, the two of them were little more than ships passing in the night, a joint dinner was proposed. 

“I’ve got the perfect place,” Steve announced. 

“Nope,” countered Jeff. 

“I didn’t even tell you where.” 

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why?” 

“I don’t want to go where you’ll spend half the time working the room. Thai or Vietnamese – choose.” 

Steve responded with a frown. “You really don’t get it.” 

“And I don’t want to.” 

“You’re being stubborn,” Steve said as he gazed with suspicion at the Vietnamese jicama rolls, ginger fish soup, and turmeric fish noodles that Jeff ordered for them to share.

“No,” replied Jeff. “I’m being me.” 

“That people are famous doesn’t mean they’re bad.” 

“But it does mean they expect to be catered to. Especially when there’s a quid pro quo.”

“What’s that mean?” demanded Steve. 

Jeff sighed. “Isn’t one of us aspiring not just to be a celebrity pediatrician, but an actual celebrity?” 

Steve frowned. “That doesn’t make me sound good.” 

“But isn’t it true?” 

When Steve said nothing, Jeff went on. “You know what I think can help you get where you want to be?” 

“Tell me.” 

“A book.” 

“Where’s this going?” asked Steve dubiously. 

“I’ve been dealing a lot with little ones – everything from newborns to toddlers.” “

And?” 

“Most new parents are clueless. They need real information, above and beyond what I tell them, or what they find on the internet. In addition to all you know, you’ve got a bit of a name.”

“Only a bit?” teased Steve. 

“What’s wrong with writing a book that could make you the new Benjamin Spock?”

“Truthfully?” 

“Yes, truthfully.” 

“That’s so 20^th century,” said Steve dismissively. “Tell you what. You write the book, and I’ll pump it on my show once I’m on the air.” 

Contemplating a book was as appealing to Jeff as having elective root canal work. Writing had always been anathema to him, which meant that a book report in high school, or a term  paper in college, required a herculean effort. The notion of undertaking what would be a  marathon seemed as unlikely as playing for the Lakers or becoming a ballerina. 

Yet in the days, then weeks, that followed, Jeff could never get the thought of a book out of his mind. 

Prefacing his overtures with full disclosure – he had no publishing contract, nor had he ever written a magazine article or even a letter to the editor – Jeff reached out to a handful of experts in related disciplines. First came those who focused on babies and toddlers: a lactation  specialist, a nutritionist who dealt with introducing solid foods, a psychologist knowledgeable about separation anxiety, plus a composer whose music was known for soothing irritable tots.  

When those interactions provided information far beyond what he’d learned in med school or during his residency, Jeff reached out to sources focused on the trials and tribulations of new  parents. That meant everything from recovery from birthing to breastfeeding, from sleep  deprivation to lack of intimacy, plus how to handle being overwhelmed with advice from  woefully misinformed family members and friends eager to provide contradictory tips.  

For the next month-and-a-half, every moment of Jeff’s spare time was spent trying to come up with, then refine, a structure that would wed his research to specifics from his own professional experiences. 

All the while, he did his best to withstand an ever-increasing sense of dread. Continuing meant that at some point actual writing would have to commence. 

To forestall that moment, Jeff tinkered, futzed, and tweaked his outline for another ten days. 

On an overcast Saturday morning, after twice raiding the refrigerator, the would-be author forced himself to sit down in front of his home computer. 

What seemed excruciating at first slowly morphed, as one week followed another, into something more akin to drudgery. Still Jeff kept at it until, to his eternal surprise, he found himself thinking about the work-in-progress while driving, showering, and lying in bed. 

A task that initially felt insurmountable gradually became an addiction as the page count grew and grew. 

Still Jeff said nothing to anyone. Not a word was uttered to the nurses or the office staff. Nor was any mention made to Rachel, a physical therapist who lived in his apartment building, with whom a relationship was blossoming. Above all, not a peep to his cousin Steve. 

As days turned to weeks, then weeks to months, the page count doubled, tripled, then continued to grow. Then finally, to Jeff’s amazement, he reached what seemed like the logical end. 

Determined to gain some semblance of objectivity, Jeff vowed to resist re-reading his opus for a minimum of three weeks. 

Two days later, while fighting the urge to peek at the pages, he lowered the enforced time off to two weeks.

Each and every one of those days was hell. Waiting, he learned, was rougher than prepping for the MCATs, or than the brutal hours he spent as an intern.  

Though Rachel, his neighbor-turned-girlfriend, started wondering why he was so jumpy, and Elena, the office receptionist, asked if something was bugging him, still Jeff remained determined not to yield to temptation. 

When at last he again gazed at the pages, he was relieved not to be embarrassed. Though he winced at redundancies and omissions, then cringed at some infelicitous turns of phrase, Jeff felt no urge to delete the document, nor any desire to jump off a bridge. 

There was editing ahead, but happily, the task seemed worth it. 

Once the revisions were finished, Jeff was faced with a dilemma: now what? After searching for book agents on the internet, he labored over a submission letter, then emailed it, together with the manuscript, to what he felt was a representative group of five agents whose focus was nonfiction. 

Then Jeff waited. And waited. And waited some more.  

After three months without a single response, he sent out another bunch of submissions. When still no response was forthcoming, he found himself wondering if his efforts had been for naught. 

Worse, Jeff continued to be chided by his cousin Steve, who was getting more and more calls to appear on TV, radio, and podcasts. 

“Tired of playing the purist?” asked Steve on a Friday evening once he, after pausing to hug a movie star, was led with Jeff to a prime table at yet another celebrity-packed restaurant.

“As in being just a doctor?” replied Jeff. 

“Think of it as banging two women.”

Jeff eyed his cousin strangely. “Is that part of the Hippocratic Oath?” 

Steve frowned. “Not the best joke I’ve ever heard. But since you’re determined to preserve your chastity, I need a favor. Ready?” 

Jeff playfully faked a fighting stance. “Ready.” 

“My agent’s gearing up to put full-court pressure on a new show I’m pitching.”

“And?” 

“With me running to meetings all over town, I need you to spend two or three weeks covering not just your patients, but mine.” 

“Even the A-Listers?” 

“Even the A-Listers.” 

“Not afraid I’ll steal ’em? Or pitch a show of my own?” 

Steve chuckled. “Now I’ll tell one.” 

Early the next Monday morning, Jeff arrived at the office and smiled at the receptionist. “How crazy is today looking?” he asked. 

“Sure you want to know?” Elena responded. 

Jeff shook his head. “That bad?” 

“It’s like everyone who’s ever been on TMZ is coming in with a sick kid.”

“And my patients?” 

“Plenty of them, too.” 

Jeff could barely catch his breath all that day, then the days that followed. It wasn’t just twice the number of patients he was handling, but two entirely different cultures. While many of his own had parents in show business – screenwriters, character actors, film editors, and other technical people – they were on a different level than Steve’s. Those whose offspring Steve attended to were accustomed to, expected, and often demanded royal treatment. That created a dilemma for Jeff, who didn’t want to take out his disdain on their kids, no matter how spoiled or pampered they might be. 

Fortunately, not all of Jeff’s fears proved to be well-founded. Though many of Steve’s  patients had parents who expected not only to be spared any wait time, but also to have their kids cured instantly, others were surprisingly down to earth. 

Even so, together with runs to Children’s Hospital, plus middle of the night visits to  examine newborns, the double load started taking a toll. 

When Jeff arrived at the office on Thursday, Elena shook her head. “You look fried.”

“You have a keen eye for detail,” Jeff joked. “Another crazy day?” 

“Crazier,” said Elena. “Up to it?” 

“Do I have a choice?” 

Sneaking in sips of green tea and bites of protein bars, Jeff had spent the morning  addressing an array of runny noses, stomach flus, ear infections, and asthma, plus a case of  bronchitis, when he entered an examining room where a mother and father were trying  unsuccessfully to comfort a crying baby. 

“I’m Dr. Roth’s partner, Jeff Rose,” he said. “Colic?” 

“That’s putting it mildly,” said the father, who introduced himself and his wife as George and Vanessa Turner. 

“May I?” Jeff asked, reaching for the baby, who was gratefully handed over by Vanessa. Rocking the little boy gently, Jeff started walking slowly around the examining room, all the while patting the baby’s tummy.  

To the surprise of the Turners, their son began growing calm. 

“Breast-feeding?” Jeff asked.

“Yes,” said Vanessa. 

“Try cutting out irritating foods – caffeine, onions, cabbage. And potential allergens –  dairy, wheat, eggs, nuts.” 

“What else?” asked George. 

“Know that by the time he starts college it’ll be over.” 

That brought a much needed laugh from the Turners. 

 “Most importantly,” Jeff went on, “don’t judge yourselves. Colic’s not the result of poor parenting. And crying doesn’t mean your son’s rejecting you.” 

“And?” wondered Vanessa. 

“If he’s inconsolable, try putting him in a Snuggly and going for a walk. Or put him in the car seat and go for a ride.” 

“How come I don’t get anything this straightforward on the internet?” asked George. “Everything there is so damn contradictory. You wouldn’t –”  

“Wouldn’t what?” asked Jeff when George didn’t finish his thought. 

“Know of an up-to-date book for new parents that actually helps.” 

Jeff shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to be much of a market for one.” 

“Are you kidding?” asked George. “Hold on. If you’re telling me you’ve got one –”

Jeff shrugged. 

“Published?” asked George. 

Jeff shook his head. 

“When can I see it?” 

“Why?” asked Jeff dubiously. 

“I’m an agent, and our New York office handles books. Can I get a copy?”

“On one condition.” 

“Name it.”

“Not a word to Dr. Roth.” 

“Have you told your cousin?” Rachel asked when Jeff mentioned over dinner at an Indian place that, to his surprise, George Turner had called to say that he had already recommended the book to a colleague in New York. 

“No,” replied Jeff, explaining that there was no certainty it would lead to anything. 

“Have you told him yet?” Rachel asked when Jeff informed her that, to his even greater surprise, he’d gotten an enthusiastic call from the book agent, Abby Bloom, who seemed convinced she’d find a publisher. 

“Still no,” responded Jeff. 

“Going to tell him now?” inquired Rachel as Jeff opened a bottle of Dom Perignon to  celebrate the fact that to his astonishment, Abby Bloom had received not just a sizable offer, but a pledge that the book would be heavily promoted. 

When Jeff shook his head. “Because you want to play it low-key?” wondered Rachel. “Or you’re afraid he’ll be jealous?” 

“Both.” 

It wasn’t until he needed a leave of absence that Jeff finally confronted his cousin. “Am I entitled to know why?” asked Steve. 

Somewhat sheepishly, Jeff mentioned an upcoming book tour. 

“All this while you’ve been hiding this from me?” demanded Steve. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Jeff responded. 

“Because I got nowhere with the show I was pitching, and now you’ll be be a star.”

“Some star.” 

“Any talk shows?” asked Steve. 

Jeff nodded. 

“Here in LA?” 

“Plus New York, Boston, and other key cities.” 

Steve sighed. “And which one of us dreamed of fame and fortune? When can I read it?”

“Whenever you want.” 

Steve studied his cousin for a moment. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “And, truthfully,  jealous.” 

As both of them laughed, Steve gave Jeff a hug. 

Neither of them knew at that moment that within a year Jeff would be giving up his practice to write, lecture, and produce instructional videos. Or that his work would spawn a full line of merchandise for parents of newborns.  

Or that Steve would eventually relinquish his dream of being a celebrity to focus full-time on pediatrics.

Alan Swyer, an award-winning filmmaker, music producer, and novelist, has written several terrific stories for New Pop Lit, the most recent being “Fanboy.”

(portfolio “Top of the Pop” image c/o loewshotels)